An Acknowledged Conundrum
by TillynSophie
Summary: OC/Sherlock story. A mysterious woman, unsolved puzzles and an emotionally clueless detective. I think you get the picture. And of course don't forget Watson!


Chapter 1

The wooden floorboards creak as I look around the currently empty apartment. Blood mixes with the gathered raindrops and pools lazily at my feet, I let my pale eyes drift over the clutter that occupies majority of the room. Books are stacked haphazardly in random positions, two armchairs face a TV set and what looks like a probably an illegal chemistry set has taken over half the kitchen table.

Lets hope this is the right house. Otherwise it might get awkward.

And no, this isn't my apartment. Hopefully, if I got the address right this is apparently the home of the one person who may be able to help me. But first…

Pulling open the draws I locate a musty looking bag with the words FIRST AID written in faded, green letters. There is a half empty bottle of antiseptic cream and some bandages. Excellent! I pull of my ruined shirt I dump it into the sink before adding my now torn and bloody jeans. The scrapes across my stomach and thighs scream and I begin to count aloud as I douse myself with the cream. Hooking one long leg onto the counter I wrap my exposed flesh before doing the same to my other thigh.

Serves me right for jumping out of a moving car. At least I didn't land on my back, which would have been awkward.

My stomach is the worst and my voice rises an octave as I take care of that area. …27… 28… I need to come up with a better coping mechanism.

Finishing slowly I wash my hands under the tap making sure to pick out the blood from under my nails.

Okay time to find a mirror. I hobble around the apartment thanking whatever angel is smiling down in my direction for making sure the owner wasn't home. I'm not in the mood for explanations.

Crossing into one of the bedrooms I grimace as I see my reflection. My dark hair is plastered across my face and my usually tanned skin looks paler then usual, but that could be because I'm cold…? All in all I look like a wanna be mummy. And not the motherly kind. Running my fingers through my hair I smile before turning around to survey the room. Time to find some new clothes.

This cupboard must belong to one hell of a tall man. The pants are ridiculous but I decide on a button up shirt, which thankfully comes, past my bum. I pull on a pair of thick socks and slide back across to the kitchen.

Step two complete, now time for food. I pull open the fridge only to shriek and slam it shut again. Who the hell keeps body parts in a fridge? Resting my forehead against the door I take a deep breath before pulling it open again and search for something edible. I find a bowl and spoon and a box of cereal and help myself to the milk. Maybe this guy's a cannibal. Why would Simon recommend a cannibal?

Taking my food to one of the living room chairs I flop down and begin to eat, eyeing the skull every few seconds. I guess there is nothing else to do but wait and I slip into a more comfortable position. I'm good at waiting; thieves are naturally some of the most patient people you could ever meet. I close my eyes, time to wait for the infamous Sherlock Holmes.

'It's how you get your kicks isn't it, risking your life to prove that you are innocent'. John Watson mumbled past the already half empty Chinese noodle box.

'Why you couldn't just have waited till we got home is a mystery that will never be explained.' Sherlock muttered, striding quickly up the stairs.

John rolled his eyes and followed.

'I thought only Mormons fasted. The rest of us need to eat.'

'Actually so do Muslims, Jewish, Hindu and Catholics, although technically they only abstain from meat and…' Sherlock began, a frown forming across his pale skin.

John sighed.

'You still haven't answered my question.'

Sherlock paused at the front door.

'It was a statement actually so no answer was necessary however we have more pressing issues at hand.' He eyed the door handle warily before holding out his hand to John.

'Get out your gun'.

'What why…?'

Sherlock placed his open palm gently against the wooden door to number 221B Baker Street and watched, as it swung open silently. It wasn't locked.

'Mrs Hudson is as you know out shopping and obviously has not returned home seeing as her car is not parked out the front, which means…'

Stepping into the dimly apartment he flicked on the light and John stepped alongside gun fixed pointedly at the figure in Sherlock's chair.

A young woman glanced up briefly before standing up to return an empty bowl and mug to the kitchen. Long tanned legs disappeared into the grey socks, the dark shirt leaving little to the imagination. She was beautiful, confident enough to make the bandages that were strapped across her thighs to look natural.

'What do you think your doing?' John spluttered, unsure wether to shoot or ask her for her number.

Sherlock was surprised. This was not what he expected.

The woman finished washing up and turned around to face the two men.

Grey eyes flashed in amusement before her lips pursed into a smirk.

'Which one of you is the private detective?' She asked, looking each man up and down carefully as if the answer was written somewhere on their clothing.

Sherlock blinked and frowned, trying to figure her out.

'Ah we are, I mean he is, umm… I'm John, John Watson and he is Sherlock Holmes.' He spat out before dropping the gun awkwardly to his side; he didn't know what to do with it.

The woman nodded before fixing her eyes on the taller man. It was probably his clothes that she had borrowed.

'What took you so long?'


End file.
